


The Devil's Advocate

by BaeIrene



Category: K-pop, Red Velvet (K-pop Band)
Genre: AU, Angst, Devil, F/F, Heaven, Hell, Religion, Seulrene, angel - Freeform, i dont know where this is going so there's not many tags, seulgixirene
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:40:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24999253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BaeIrene/pseuds/BaeIrene
Summary: Her name is Bae Joohyun and she knows how to make the devil cry.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 18





	1. I

Angels and devils are often described extravagantly in human fiction, usually depicted with luscious white wings and extensive tails with pointed, red tips but, luckily for Bae Irene, in reality this wasn't the case. Having to conceal wings double her size would considerably dampen her plan to infiltrate a conference in hell- all she has to do is remove a glowing halo, an act that feels so undoubtedly wrong, but immediately swabs her of any indicating identity. Wearing the luminescent rings definitely shoveled coal into the fire between the warring species-- devils don't have halos, hell, most of them don't even have horns, (something that had evolved out of most of their bloodlines over the millenniums) so why on earth did angels feel the need to pad their already inflated egos with neon evidence? It was an argument as long as time. Literally.

Without her radiant crown, it was surprisingly easy for Irene to get into Hell; she'd had some help of course, from angel 'defectors' who were still working for Heaven, but other than a few tight squeezes here and there, she came out of her journey relatively unscathed.

Now she's walking through a lavish party celebrating the underworld she swears to despise so much. It's all very extravagant with extra high ceilings that round to a point in the centre decorated with work likened to Michelangelo in the Sistine Chapel and large glass panes that are so clear it's like looking at water frozen in motion. Waiters dance effortlessly through crowds of devils that grow, shrink, pulse and move around the venue like hives as they serve alcohol, and other 'classy party foods' that Irene has never quite understood: like cheese and pineapple sticks and melon layered with ham. The thing that really tips the whole thing over the edge for her is Bloody Marys being served with an added flourish as if the beverage was named after Hell itself.

The atmosphere is relaxed in contrast to the constant fuel of adrenaline rushing through her in waves that take her off guard each time. There's no imminent danger; everyone's keeping to their respective social circles, occasionally mingling with one another like a bride and groom's family but inevitably separating later. There's nobody who has even given her a second glance or inspected her outfit (which she so meticulously put together) so why is it that her fingers aren't steady when she curiously plucks a stick of cheese and pineapple off of a platter?

Maybe it's the orange lighting and the warm hues everywhere that remind her that she's far from home. The yellows in the chandeliers that, whilst appearing dainty, would probably kill you if they came crashing down and the red swirls of colour in the numerous tapestries and paintings lining the brown panelled walls all were all a jarring pointer that she was amongst the enemy in a place that upheld and maybe even worshipped morals completely the opposite of her own. She had always considered devils inferior to angels. Who wouldn't? Each one was a defector, a fallen angel who had rejected their own tradition-infused society and created their own rules, each one more ruthless and savage than the last. At least that's what she had been brought up to believe: Hell was a firey pit where each being inhabiting the licking flames are scorched, objectively ugly and so tickled by the idea of murder that they built their own world around the idea. This angelic propaganda, so far, had yet to be proven. The gathering was surprisingly civilized with neatly pressed suits and dresses that never rode above the top of the knee although she did find herself wincing and jerking whenever the room exploded with raucous laughter or something else of the sort... Maybe she needs a drink to take the edge off.

Approaching the bar she's greeted with an array of spirits in varied colours, their glass catching the light and shimmering in luminescent patterns that shift whichever way she turns and moves. It's more mesmerizing to stare in awe at bottled alcohol than Irene would like to admit and anyone would think she's an underage teenager stepping into a liquor store clutching a fake ID for the first time by the expression on her face. Beneath the stools lining the counter is a flattened rectangular rug stained slightly darker in the middle from consistent foot traffic fading out towards the lighter more plumpy, cottony edges which had clearly escaped many encounters. Now that she's seemingly snapped out of her starstruck epiphany, a bar-tender crosses over to her only to be cold-shouldered when she sees the prices. Instead, she snags a Bloody Mary from a passing waiter (because they're free) and resumes her seat. She likes to fancy that she did so in stylish elegance.

After picking off the skewered olives and stalks garnishing the top she takes a sip of the cocktail and she only thinks two things: 'too much celery salt' and 'why didn't I just buy some ready-made drink?'.

By the time she's looking at the drained bottom of the glass the alcohol has seeped through her system, neutralising those surges of adrenaline which had been making her back stiffen involuntarily and it's enough to create a small buzz in her head. In fact, it was perfect. Now she can relax and observe the party like she's intended to be doing the entirety of her visit without fearing that some freakishly horned demon is going to approach her and ... she doesn't know. Slit her throat or something? Irene doesn't want to admit that she's tipsy but her reaction when she turns her head to see a woman sitting beside her is probably enough to give her away, especially judging by the amused tugging at the corner of the stranger's lips who sends her a small glance over the top of her glass. At least she's not drunk enough to have lost her reflexes.

Dropping her jolted shoulders Irene lets out a small breathy laugh, and before she can stop herself she's apologising to the devilish woman before her, indicated by two small horns poking out on her scalp between her voluminous, black hair. "Sorry... You gave me a fright." She explains in good-nature, regarding the devil's side profile, a softly rounded nose and high cheekbones. She has a stoic manner about her with broad shoulders poised backwards and a lightly arched back in a posture that Irene can't really flaw.

"That's okay. Enjoying the party?" She turns her head to face Irene and one of her shoulders follows suit when she gestures to the bustle of exchanges behind them. The woman talks like she's familiar with the setting, a small and somewhat prideful smile gracing her lips which the lightly intoxicated angel can't quite pinpoint the meaning of. In all honesty, Irene had almost forgotten about the hundred or so guests hovering around the building being so distracted in her imploding mind from both a mixture of dulled nerves and alcohol. Adding to that, a devil had just asked her opinion on the party that she, one: was an infiltrator of, and two: not actually paying any attention to.

"I am. Although I had to get away from the crowds for a bit." Irene responds, keeping her responses curt and short. Not even all the alcohol in the world bubbling through her bloodstream would stop her from over-socialising with a devil. She thinks. Her excuse can't really be faulted- the boisterous nature of the attendants has clearly repelled not just herself. She also takes this chance to gain a proper look at the face of the woman in question. Her mono-lidded eyes are lined with a thin streak of pointed eyeliner, elongating their feline shape paired with delicate, plump lips and neatly shaped eyebrows that are slightly lighter than the hair on her head. The devil is undeniably attractive and she's looking at Irene with an unreadable expression that only fuels both her curiosity and caution.

"I understand. Those men grind on my nerves." The woman raises her eyebrows briefly, her eyes widening in what looks like an act of irritation as she sips her blood-coloured wine. When she lowers the glass, she flicks her tongue over her now slightly reddened lips before speaking again. "Ah, but did you see the champagne tower at least?"

There's a sudden innocent air of excitement radiating from her, a small glint her eyes as she quirks an eyebrow in anticipation of the increasingly nervous angel. Trying to match her enthusiasm, Irene nods: "Of course! It was stunning." Her finger slowly rounds the rim of her empty glass as she shifts her attention to the room which has a stark lack of majestic champagne towers in any shape or form. Her breath hitches. Has she been tricked? Is she being had on?

"It's a real shame they took it down, no? I would've liked to marvel at it longer."

"Sure." Relief.

The stranger gives another cryptic smile, taking Irene's compulsive glass rubbing as a sign to beckon over the bartender. It's clear the woman isn't bent on the idea of getting her wasted as she gets a fresh glass of wine and watches the devil's refill but one glass turns into two and Irene is in over her head before she can stop herself. She knows the alcohol has robbed her inhibitions when she's not giving a second thought to the brutal repercussions of a wine-induced hangover. She learnt the science about why they were so bad before. It's to do with enzymes. Or something like that she thinks.

Her distinct distaste for wine is merely an aching thought in the back of her mind now but the pretty-looking woman who's name (now that she reflects on it) she doesn't even know besides her is drinking it and so she wants to as well. "What's your name?" Irene verbalises her thoughts, her head tipping slightly in curiosity which makes her hyper-aware of the weight of it on her neck like she's holding a bowling pin raised above her with one hand.

"That's a secret." The stranger mysteriously taps the side of her nose with suggestion, a light shrug making her shoulders rise. Why is it that the devil appears so much more sober than her? Briefly, she wonders whether devils have a higher alcohol tolerance.

Irene lets out a laugh, her pearly white teeth revealed as she smiles, her body swaying with her apparent amusement at the mystifying answer that was making a strange situation even stranger. Suddenly, she leans forwards in a sombre manner, making the woman physically recoil in surprise before she regains her composure and matches the angel's pose. "Do you want to know a secret about me?" She drunkenly jabs a finger in their respective directions.

"If it's your name, I can just find it on the guest's list. Easy."

"No, no!" The woman veering dangerously on her stool makes a perplexed expression before waving her hand dismissively. She's growing to become like the rowdy crowd she had grown to have such distaste for earlier, but that's not what's on her mind anymore as she once again leans forwards with such force that the wine in her cup threatens to slosh over the glass thresh hold onto either the devil's knees or the mat beneath them. Hopefully the latter. "I'm actually an angel... I'm undercover. Isn't that cool?" She says with enthusiasm, an anticipating smile spreading across her features as she studies the woman's face opposite her.

Once again, the native of Hell's expression is unreadable. She nods as if she's understanding something, the cogs visibly twisting in her head as she takes a sip of wine like she's chasing the thought. The stand of her glass hits the wooden counter for the first time since their exchange began and with a start that sends that familiar feeling of adrenaline coursing through Irene, but slower as if it's fighting through congealed alcohol, she realises that the reason the devil seems 'sober' is that she's actually barely touched her second round and, even worse, she's just revealed the identity that could cost her her life.

The angel, with a panic that flashes across her face in a way that resembles cornered prey, goes to abruptly stand and to add insult to injury she swings forwards and her drink unceremoniously spills and lands on the black lacy top clothing the devil's chest. The blood-red substance seeps through the lace, the red stain pooling and dripping down her skin to her stomach which is shrouded by an also reddened cloth, now soddenly clinging to her skin.  
"There was no champagne tower." Without another word, the woman stands and leaves maintaining an air of grace that would appear that if there wasn't a glaringly obvious stain that made her look like she had been stabbed in the stomach, no one would suspect a thing. Pairing the belittlement with the disastrous finale, it's clear that both her blossoming 'friendship' (if you could call it that) and her night is over.

* * *

The night prior felt like a distant memory when Irene had awoken. The effects of her hangover were in full force and she couldn't list the reasons on one hand as to why she shouldn't have been drinking as if she was the daughter of a Moldovan and a Russian. It's difficult to word how she felt. Part of her is filled with an existential dread that her death is near and the mysterious yet magnetising stranger is going to take some sadistic pleasure in seeing the woman who ruined her top tortured and the other... is oddly relaxed. The devil wouldn't have actually believed a random, drunken guest's tales and the worst that could happen if they were to even meet again would be that she was filed with a harsh bill and a story.

Pulling herself out of the warmth of her covers is arguably the hardest part of her day and the throbbing in her head is screaming at her to retreat but it's her second and last day in Hell. One meeting with some pretentious higher-ups and she can return to the blue-skied home she calls Heaven where her memories will be both distant and some recycled gibberish transformed each time like Chinese whispers that she could tell to charm strangers. On second thought, maybe not; she'd had enough of them recently.

Now she poses at an elongated table, letting aspirin do its work. It's brimmed and varnished neatly with legs that curve somewhat maliciously and indents upon it's top to hold stationary; other than the questionably designed limbs, the decorations are undeniably high-quality for Hell. This centre-piece of the room swarms with a multitude of devils all completely different from the next: whilst some are horned and some are not, their differences seemingly make little impact on their conversations. It's unusual seeing the relaxed standards in the ominous hall which feels both huge and too small for the angel. Heaven was so much more uptight, it's rigid rules and expectations that warrant harsh punishments with a sick sense of irony that Irene never missed. The humanoid figures before her were enshrouded with a red taint, the fiery colour of the morning sky trickles through the clear, glass windows that stretch up from the floor to the shapely ceiling far above. She's noted that Hell has a thing for this type of elongated architecture. Nonetheless, it's brightly lit inside with white, decorative lanterns that occasionally sway on their chains with a barely audible squeak. In fact, as much as she hates to admit it, it feels a little cosy (disregarding the pompously dressed attendees) with the orange sky resembling a sunset and the quiet stillness of the room shielding them from the outside.

They're sitting in a suffocating silence for what seems like forever. She feels like she's been doing a lot of sitting and waiting recently. There's only one seat left to be filled and it's at the head of the table; even without its occupant, it demands all the attention in the room. Irene feels a building apprehension at what fearsome beast might arrive and usurp it. All she does know is that Satan's representative is running late and every second- no- every millisecond that passes by is making her increasingly nervous. It feels as though her laces are too loose, or her sleeves are riding up beneath her jacket, or her belt is one hole too tight, and yet she sits. And she waits.

Involuntarily, Irene's eyes flit to the grand, double door. There's a sound like the clicking of locks, a muffled voice with a distinctively annoyed tone and then the thud as the wood is released and the doors swing open. Holding it with one arm extended is a smartly dressed young devil, his head is hung somewhat shamefully which is preventing a clear view from his face, however, Irene looks away: she is not here to see a servant. Instead, the most important person in the meeting has since entered and the silence hanging in the air only thickens. She's tall, or at least taller than Irene but smaller than the other attendees, and slim. Black tresses cascade down her back, each strand vitalised and healthy, a few hanging carelessly over her shoulders, framing her face whilst they sway in time with her slow and casual steps. A manner that exudes both coolness and temper and not once does she turn her head in their direction to spare a glance to any other person present.

All eyes are on this striking presence and, with a start, Irene realises that whilst she had been staring everybody has risen from their seats and prostrated with a stiffness that gives away just how nervous they really are. The thud of her heel hitting the chair's foot as she scrapes it jarringly across the floor in a hurried attempt to join the others is far louder than she would have anticipated and apparently it is for Satan's second in command too made clear by her once indifferent posture becoming alert. The horned woman's familiar, cat-like eyes are narrowed and staring daggers that pierce through her skin like acupuncture and with a sickening sense of dread, Irene is hit with a realisation that feels like her blood has frozen (even in the pits of hell) and her stomach drops.

Bae Joohyun is holding eye contact with the woman on whom she spilt her red wine.


	2. II

It feels like Irene is the only other person in the room. Everything in her peripheral vision has blurred as if it's just her and this enigma of a woman alone. It's like without them, reality would just phase away. She's utterly unfazed, arms resting on the wood above her waist, her fingers delicately poised on the table's brimming and that same impeccable posture that she had seen yesterday. Not one part of her moves; she's so still to the point that Irene can feel a sense of nervousness at the unnaturalness of it all churning in the pit of her stomach. Despite the devil's static eeriness, she exudes fire, fear, and force- the absolute pinnacle of purposefulness. She hasn't even said a word- in fact, she's late, and yet nobody has questioned her. Why was it that they were so scared of her? She wasn't Satan himself, she's just his left hand and so surely everything she does is just a relay of him. Irene likes to think that those types of people only hold as much power as you let them have, she had hoped that the stranger would face a lot more 'don't shoot the messenger' situations but clearly this woman's word was never trespassed against. Despite her beliefs, she can't calm the spine-chilling trepidation crawling up her back.

Did she know who she was? That's a stupid question. Clearly a woman so influential wasn't stupid enough to forget about a literal angel spilling wine on her at her own party. There are enough guards stationed around the room for her to simply snap her fingers and never even have to worry about the trespassing angel again and yet... she stays still. Why isn't she moving? Why isn't she saying anything? Their eyes still haven't wavered from one another's and Irene is feeling her hold on maintaining eye-contact beginning to sputter out. The trepidation on her back had become a vice of terror gripping her head and it isn't just last night's wine that's making her head throb now.

Irene's fingers bend and hold the edge of the table, arms tensing up so that she can stand and leave or make a run for it or something because she's sure that this staring contest is going to lead to her demise but just before she does so, the almost tangible laserbeam between the two of them is gone at the click of a tongue. The woman has turned her attention away as if the interaction had never just happened, it's like Irene may as well have just vanished. There is no fiery temperament in her eyes like what she could have sworn she just saw. It's replaced with a calm coolness, one that is exuded most ominously. Whoever she is, she has an overwhelming amount of influence. It's evident not only through her manners and her physical character but the brainless way that everyone had reacted when she had entered. It would be a lie to say that she wasn't intimidated.

"I see a few new faces here today," The captivator of everyone's attention raises an eyebrow, her finger dancing across two others but, curiously, not Irene. "In that case, I'm Kang Seulgi and--"

As soon as her name leaves her lips, a woman beside Irene is rendered into a fit of coughs that wrack her entire frame (which isn't much of a feat judging by her petite size.) Her short, blonde hair bounces wildly, her cheeks paled with shock growing increasingly red at the force she's exerting and one of her hands clutches at her chest as if she's gasping for air. Nobody moves. Is that what Hell is like? Irene reaches a friendly hand out but once again she's interrupted. It feels like nothing is going right for her.

"Moving on," Seulgi steeples her fingers, eyes narrowed suspiciously in a manner similar to that Irene had been on the unfortunate receiving end of at the blonde-haired woman who's breathing is ragged although her chokes have subsided for the most part. Upon meeting Irene's concerned gaze the woman gives her a few dismissive nods, her eyes fearfully flitting back to whom she can only presume is Seulgi. "I said: moving on." With bated breath, Irene turns to face forwards not paying attention to the woman at the head of the table. Not the woman who's eyes are burning holes in the side of her head. No, no. Not her. Not Kang Seulgi.

Whether this small act of defiance just blew the unusual terms on which Seulgi has allowed her life to continue, Irene has yet to find out.

The rest of the meeting slips by unusually fast. For the most part of it, Irene is weighing up her fate between her two palms. Will she live, or will she die? She's sure that living would mean her tongue gets chopped off and becoming a nameless creature who's only purpose is to serve. She'd never feel the warmish glow of her halo on her head ever again, doomed to live in a world of autumn hues for eternity; how awful. Now that she's thinking about it, does her halo actually radiate any heat? Or was that something she'd made up to elate her social status amongst devils? God, she hopes she lives to debunk the theory.

If she dies... well. Would it be painless? Irene likes to think Satan would have enough power to just 'vapourize' her. That sounds painful. More like just take her out of existence as if she wasn't even there in the first place. Upon reflecting on that wish, if Satan did have that much power, then her angelic counterparts most likely aren't going to fare well in the future.

Did Hell have a justice system? Maybe that'd be too contradictory--

"You're dismissed,"

Seulgi's low register snaps her out of her thoughts and Irene is dragged forcefully back into reality. Satan's second in command is already half-way out of the door and as soon as the same skittish servant has swung the wood closed again, the devils surrounding the table make haste in packing away. The older man opposite her, with horns that protrude from his forehead in such an odd manner that it looks like they would ache, is eyeing her with caution and Irene feels a flush of embarrassment as she realises that he was the unfortunate soul her eyes had landed on for the entirety of the time she was spaced out.

Dodging and weaving through the clumps of devils outside of the conference room is a hard enough feat to complete without drawing attention to herself too. They chatter amongst themselves, idly standing with one another for no real reason other than unanimous, mutual politeness that they all pretend to enthuse in but most certainly will complain about how they were 'kept back' later. Devils are more sequacious than one would initially expect considering the very anarchistic ideologies that they centre their lives around. 

The hallway is long, people at the end of it are seemingly materializing from nothing or disappearing as if they were never there before. No one gives her a passing nod and greeting or even a glance. Away from the thick bubble of a dismissed meeting where each attendee is unsure how to break through it, attention is a precious commodity and time cannot afford to spare it. The tiles beneath her feet don't seem to end, the grout in between the whitened slabs is darkened and the soles of her shoes scuff them, sending squeaks that make her back stiffen like that of a nail drawn down a chalkboard would which echo throughout the tunnel, no doubt making a few horned heads turn in her direction. Doors line the walls, leading to other rooms most likely a hub for devils and the thought of how many she is truly amongst is beginning to become suffocating and so she picks up her pace and the only thing that snaps her out of her determination to leave is the absolute, foreign feeling of someone else's skin upon her own: more poignantly, a hand around her wrist and it's dragging her inwards before she can cry out and her words are lost in her throat in a hitched whirlpool of shock and confusion and yet the same silhouettes fading in and out of sight continue with their predetermined paths.

Irene is in a bathroom now after being pulled with unforgiving force through one of the doors she now so wishes she had been paying attention to, as if the very presence of her gaze might've warded off this threat. Traipsing her eyes up the index finger and thumb locked around her wrist up to the shoulder leads her to the threat in question: Kang Seulgi but before she can utter a word, whether it be apology, cry, curse or thanks (for whatever inane reason that could be) she's being backed up against the tiled walls and Irene is pushing too (with the underpowered force she can muster in such a short turnaround.) The bathroom is small, the gap between the wall and the stalls opposite is no more than a metre at most, the gap between sinks and the door to the world outside continuing undisturbed is even less than that and there would be no use running out there where Seulgi's brainless minions would most certainly veer and swarm her as if they had all been moving to her in the first place. Seulgi's back barely misses the stall behind her to a point that any loose threads on her blazer would have tickled it and yet the size of the room doesn't seem to affect the sudden ferocity that sparks behind her irises. 

A fist swings towards Irene's sculpted jaw but whether it's from the fear and anticipation or some other primal survival instinct that Irene would otherwise be curious in learning about, she turns her head past it, catching her arm and yanking her forwards into her now upraised knee which sends the devil reeling. Either the woman trusts her fists or Irene has angered her beyond a point of control because now punches are flying this way and that and her knuckle connects with her lip and a pain blooms around her lower face and the second connection is at her temple, sending her crashing into the enamel sink and adding to the mounting pain from her hangover. Hands slipping on the water lining the sink's brim in which a normal situation she would have cried out in disgust, she's powering a kick at a quickly approaching Seulgi, catching her in her hip and sending her careening into a stall door and beyond it. In the moment, she wonders if the passing hoard outside is too enthralled in their own dull lives to hear them or if fights inside bathrooms were a regular occurrence here.

Seulgi's out of the stall now but instead of raising her fists, her leg shoots out, the sole of her shoe binding to Irene's stomach giving her the leverage to get close to the pinned woman. De-escalation is her physical aim when her hand lurches for her throat and holds her to the wall beside the sink but mentally, Irene's thoughts are a mess. She knows at least she can still breathe and she's alive but her breathing is ragged and shallow much alike to the devil's who's grip is loosening. She thinks maybe she could push her hard enough and run but then she wouldn't know where to go and so she lets a suffocating stillness fall upon them which makes her acutely aware of the warm fluid running down her chin and neck and pooling on the collar of her shirt which she can only assume is blood. Regarding Seulgi, her high cheekbone has sustained a scratch, one that Irene thinks she probably gained mid-fall because she doesn't recall moving in the vicinity of her face although she wouldn't put it past herself. They took a moment to stand there catching their breath.

Just like when Seulgi had broken their eye contact, she lets go of the angel who, with a subdued panic that she's not yet ready to reveal, moves to the murky mirror in which she shifts in a way that isn't quite reflecting her properly, a vision of her distorted self which feels like it's been becoming more and more real since her arrival in Hell. Looking down at the sink, there's a soapy residue building up around the half-opened plug and a well in it where the bubbles have mostly sunken in and disappeared, a red blood splotch from her lip being the perpetrator which makes the surrounding area bloom pink in a way that she would likely admire if it wasn't trickling down her chin in a most unpleasant way.

Wiping at it, Seulgi is hovering over her shoulder in the slanted image. "Tell me your name." She says and nothing else: simple words with a commanding aura. 

"Bae Joohyun. Irene."

"And why on earth are you here?"

The bloodstain on Irene's collar is turning wine-dark, much like the stain she had left on Seulgi last night. "What is it to you?" She knows what it is to her. It's everything to her. Of course it is, but it's fun to play with fire when it's been extinguished and she can poke at the whispering embers that remain.

"Tell me."

"No."

"I'd suggest you do or-"

Irene doesn't let her finish, ignoring the irritated grimace crossing her expression. "This happens regularly. A checkup."

"A checkup?"

"That's what I said."

"Can you elaborate?"

"I really shouldn't."

"Do I have to remind you who's-"

"Angels come here often. They watch and make sure there's no extremist behavior rallying up the people. I'm really the first you've known about?" Interrupting again, Irene tries to keep her answers vague. Don't let her add too many details to her questions.

"I don't think so."

"You don't think so?"

"Well, I think about it now and there are a few faces that come to mind." 

"Well. It's a little late for that one."

The silence that ensues the snarky conversation, stirred by both of them but pushed most by Irene, isn't comfortable and the only sound that fills the air from there on is their labored breathing and the sound of the pipes squealing as water fights through their congealed insides and spurts out the tap to wash away the pinkened clouds and after that, the water is clean and it swirls, pushing away the last drop of blood the angel allows to fall in before she upturns the corner of her darkened collar and holds it to the perpetrating lip. No one speaks for a bit longer and yet they tell volumes by simply tolerating one another's presence. Irene isn't pretending to take interest in the water anymore and she turns off the tap.

"For your checkup, what did you find out?" Seulgi speaks, breaking the ever-thickening silence that was enveloping them. Irene looks up into the mirror, watching how the devil's eyebrow quirks in both curiosity and a challenge. 'Were you paying attention, Irene? Did you do your job, Irene?' is what it feels like she's really asking. It's only now that she realises how severe her situation is: she was burning up in the meeting so much so that she never even paid attention to what was discussed. She doesn't bother to hide this fact, her head dipping in dismay which tears her gaze from the mirror as she pinches the bridge of her nose.

The silence is enough for Seulgi who's tongue clicks as if she's reprimanding her, lips curving into an amused smirk. "You're harmless."

"At least I put up a fight." Irene's words are quick, but they're certainly not sharp and she knows she should've just stayed quiet judging by the ever-growing smile on Seulgi's face which is rounding out her sharpened bones with her cheeks and making her eyes tilt upwards in a way that Irene would find adorable on someone if they weren't peering down on her from a hierarchy of which she is the lowest and most vulnerable of the low.

"Yet look wear we are."

That's a question Irene would much like to ask. How come Seulgi isn't tearing her throat out or dragging her to fiery pit to pay for her crimes? What scheme is she conjuring? If Seulgi doesn't kill her, she's fairly sure the weight on her shoulders will; the list of problems she's stirred up tally to a number that she can't count on both of her hands and if they keep standing in this bathroom they'll keep growing and she'll keep feeling the weight of heaven and hell pushing down on her shoulders.

"Won't you come with me?" Seulgi asks, once again being the one to break the silence. "I'd like to speak away from this." Her hands gesture unceremoniously at the bathroom. Irene doesn't think privacy is an issue here, nobody noticed them even when they weren't trying to hide something but then she's walking out, opening the door with the tip of her shoe and looking back but Irene's already following without so much as a word. Whether it's fear and intimidation of the consequences of her rejection or something else entirely, she doesn't think she's ready to know.

* * *

Now they're standing atop a small hill overlooking the monotonous buildings made of concrete plastered white and glass, glass and more glass. The same figures seemingly phase in and out of existence when they enter or exit a hallway and it's a difficult thought for Irene to get her head around that each of them has their own busy life. It's a train that makes her stomach twist in anxious knots at how truly outnumbered she is but, if they have any idea she's amongst them, they make no sign of it; continuing up and down the same stretches of corridors with no real effort. She wonders what drives them to their routines. Mercy? Reward? 

"It's not the most gracious sight," Seulgi comments with a voice that sounds almost crestfallen; disappointed at what Hell could be and what it is. If it were to better, would it become like Heaven or become increasingly hideous? These are the thoughts traipsing through Irene's mind when she looks at the landscape. "But the sky is nice."

"Quite." Seulgi's right. The orange and yellow hues in the sky blend like watercolours to make one painting. Pink trickles at the bottom of the horizon line, red dabbing its corners tentatively and telephone lines streak through the swirl of colours like the artist has torn through it with black ink. Birds occasionally flit about the lines, sitting and watching the world go by before they go too and leave no trace. "But why are we here if it's not to look at the view?"

"Are you different?" Seulgi asks randomly. "To other angels?"

"Different? No. I'm just the same as any other."

"But you remind me of myself. I think we're similar."

"And the devil's advocate does stand up in her free time?"

"I'm serious."

At this Irene scoffs slightly. Turning around from the edge of the hill she's standing a few paces away from Satan's second command who has modestly seated herself at the base of a tree that looms over them. The tree's boughs that bare a pelt of leaves shrouding them in shade is the only uniting trait they share. "We couldn't be more opposite."

"How so?"

"Do I really have to answer that?" 

"Yeah."

"I'm an angel," She gestures to herself, placing two hands above her head as if framing a halo and follows it by pointing her index fingers upwards at her temples. "You're a devil. See?"

"But can you list any other reasons?" Seulgi's eyes narrowed in a challenge. The silence that follows is telling. She's reeling her into this little game of hers that Irene likes to call 'Make Joohyun commit treason!' She's standing with a horned stranger who has considerably more power than her and whom she was fighting with only moments ago yet they're acting civil, in a position that friends would call normal. Why was that? They're strangers. "I should go. I have to rest up well tonight."

"Why's that?"

"We're running low on guardians. Something you would know if you paid attention to the meeting." Seulgi makes to stand, dusting herself off. Irene is stunned to even receive an answer, regardless of the spite on her part. "I have to step in to guard some girl. Kim Yeri? Yerim. Something like that."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Why not? What are you going to do?"

"I don't know, I mean... why aren't I dead or something?"

A look of hurt flashes across Seulgi's face but as quickly as it appears, it's gone again. "What do you take me for?"

"A devil." It's a simple answer but it says everything that needs to be. The mention of their differing species is able to put back whatever mutual pact exists between them to where it was born: a mind of curiosity for what it's like on the other side where it will grow again no doubt and intertwine two other souls if it fails this time. 

"We don't know each other. Not at all." She scoffs and the same look crosses her expression once again when her head shakes and gives her a dismissive nod, walking now down the hill. 

Irene takes a few steps after her. "Can I ask you something?"

"Go for it." Seulgi says but she doesn't slow her pace.

"Why did that girl panic when she heard your name?"

There's a moment of quiet between them, filled only by the evenly spaced steps of Seulgi's shoes hitting the grass. "I have no idea what you're talking about." 

Irene stays a little bit longer at the edge of the hill even once Seulgi is long gone and retreated into whatever lavish lifestyle she imagines her to have. There's something strange about the horned woman; the way she feels deeply is clear- flashes of anguish on her face when she relates her to stereotypes is something she never expected to see on someone so highly ranked in the underworld. How she dismisses small details. The peculiar way that she's speaking to Irene as if they're old, devilish friends when in reality, the truth couldn't be more of the opposite. 

When she finally reaches the pulsating portal that throbs like something alive which will transport her to the place she oh-so-longs-to-be there's another obstacle. The petite woman. The petite woman with the short blonde hair. The petite woman with the short blonde hair who choked upon hearing Seulgi's name as if she was a six year old with a pen lid lodged down her throat. She stands there, her weight unevenly distributed on one leg, hip jutted because of it and an eyebrow raised on her slightly tilted visage. She's all smirking lips and with her cocky demeanour, it's clear that she knows something.

"Having fun with the devil's advocate?"

"What's it to you?" Irene asks again; she's not about to rinse her mouth out to strangers for the second time since her arrival in this doomed journey.

"I'm the other undercover angel," She says it like Irene was supposed to know that. "Son Seungwan? Wendy? You should have known there was someone else." Oh.

"Ah- sorry, of course I knew!" Irene waves her hand as if it was a ridiculous notion. "I'm Bae Irene."

"Soon to be Kang?"

Irene comes to a veering halt in her path. "Excuse me?"

"You and Kang Seulgi," Wendy pushes her neck forwards as if what she's trying to say is obvious. "Suddenly gal pals and all that?"

"Do you see this?" Irene gestures jabbingly at the healing cut upon her lip and the wine-dark stain on her otherwise stark-white shirt collar with distaste. "She gave me that."

"Ah, so all isn't well in paradise, mm?"

"This is literally Hell, Wendy."

"A match made in Heaven."

"Not funny. That woman hates my guts and I know it. I'm really unsure as to why she's keeping me around."

"Maybe she's a sadist."

"Maybe."

"And then, just when you thought you might have breached the gap between Heaven and Hell, angels and devils, good and evil, she'll like... snap your neck." Wendy's eyes widen tauntingly at the end of her sentence.

"I said something like that earlier and she looked... upset." Irene grimaces at the memory.

"Upset? As in sad?"

"Yeah, I'm as surprised as you are."

"Perhaps for the short time you have left with her, you could squeeze some more information from her? You know, judging from how you didn't seem to collect anything from the meeting."

Irene reflects on the words that her and the devil exchanged and with a pang of both guilt and excitement, she realises something that tugs the corner of her lips into a cunning smirk. "I know just the thing."


	3. III

She can smell blood. Taste it too, it's metallic tint washing over her tongue and when she holds her trembling hands up in front of her, she can see it. See it trickling down her palms and then her forearms, gathering in a spike at her elbow and dripping to the floor with the sound of rain pitter-pattering on a roof and it feels just as frequent too. Then she hears the screaming and suddenly the blood is gone from her hands. What point of time is she in? Moments before or years later? She can't decipher her surroundings, phasing into different settings as soon as she thinks she recognises one or blurring when her eyes begin to focus. The shrilling is intense and are surely shredding an unknown someone's vocal cords and they're screaming at her and her approaching blood-less hands and her presence is alone unsettling but her actions are the ones warranting fear. Now her hands are over someone's mouth. There's no transition- they just are. She can feel the heat of their breath against her palms dampened with vapour and the screams are muffled or non-existent at all, it's difficult to tell when all she can hear is a ringing in her ears which throbs achingly in time with her booming heartbeat. Their eyes are blood-shot and glazed over with tears as they dart back and forth as if looking for salvation, looking for a way out. A flash glimpses through her fogged vision, a reflection from glass? A blade? Her stomach twists sickeningly as her hand moves and it feels like she's pushing a sharp object through a starchy pillow and now, there's blood again and her vision is obfuscating her red-stained skin and the ringing is louder than ever and the screams rallying-

Seulgi wakes up with a start, barely repressing the yelp that's already half-way out of her throat when she sits up. She's in a cold sweat, goosebumps pricking up all along her arms whilst her chest heaves in uneven breaths that, neither physically nor mentally, seem to steady her. Her clothes feel damp, sticking to her like wet tissue paper and some of her hair clings to her forehead which wiping gives to no avail. The first thing she wants to do is tear off her blanket and yet she's frozen- more so from shock and horror than fear. These nightmares have been plaguing her as long as she can remember and yet they are progressively worsening each time- like the incomprehensible visions she sees are becoming stiller, more focused, almost tangible. At this, she hastily wipes her wet hands on her clothed thighs; it's her own sweat but her reaction might as well make it the same blood she thought she could feel.

Not even a warming shower can erase the bone-chilling strain which makes her acutely aware of the goosebumps along her arms brushing up against her sleeves. The only thing that stills the stormy sea rocking the boat of her mind is recalling the odd moment of peace her and an angel had shared. Irene had been consuming a lot of her time recently: whether she was trying to salvage an expensive wine-stained article of clothing, scuffling with her in a bathroom, or sitting upon a hilltop in silence, the unusual woman had seemingly appeared out of nowhere and usurped the more important things on her jammed schedule. She elicited a curiosity in Seulgi that she hadn't felt in a long time; getting drunk on the job and being usually very distant was one thing, but whenever she thought she pinned her as an anxious girl, Irene would do something to avert all her expectations again. Alas, she had retreated back to heaven and it was unlikely they'd ever cross paths again for so many reasons that Seulgi doesn't really have the mind to list at the moment.

Being Satan's second command grew boring after time passed. Mostly she supervised meetings and simply relayed information back and forth for the 'big man himself'. She's almost grateful that she's been assigned to take up some grunt work in the form of guarding. It's been a long time since she'd done this; long enough that the memories of it have started to blur and merge into timelines she isn't quite sure actually happened. Earth was unkind to her. She tells herself time and time again, that it was nobody's fault but her own. It's what everybody else said and so, naturally, she believed them.

Stepping back onto Earth's ground is always unusual; before she had died it felt like she could never get away from everyone but now, being from the land of the dead (and the damned at that) meant that nobody alive could see her, not even sense her. Albeit they were affected by her; the act of being a 'guardian angel' or the lesser-known 'guardian devil' is one of balance. One's presence would have a natural influence on a human's actions. A human with only a devil attending would incline to perform bad deeds and vice versa, so the two opposing sides appear to maintain neutrality and, ultimately, push for one's own morals to be the biggest factor in their actions. On this idea, one could argue that there is no need for guarding at all but many, if not most humans, possess a natural preference of evil and, to combat this, guardian angels were introduced but their presence was deemed too intrusive, and so, guardian devils were instigated.

Seulgi's standing outside of a quaint coffee shop somewhere in downtown Seoul. It's yellowed appearance sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the bright, modern and neon lights lining the buildings surrounding it. It was a break for the eyes, the front of it consisting mostly of glass panes that provided a look to the inside. Customers talk animately in conversations she's not privy to and probably wouldn't care for anyway. The silence encompassing her outside is only stirred by the swinging of a dated sign and the general bustle of the city- it makes those inside look like mimes.

Upon opening the door, she's hit with waves of senses, the first of which is the noise. A sea of low murmurs, the sound of when a large group of voices merges into one continuous hum which occasionally lowers in volume when the din caused by staff busying themselves behind the counter clatters too much. The intense smell of coffee is the next thing she notices, it's overwhelming scent causing her shoulders to heave and push back when she takes a deep breath of it. It's relaxing and familiar and it almost feels like if she approached the counter lined with delicacies powdered with sugar and currants, they'd gleefully look up from the tills and take her order. One of the walls is compiled of small bricks unevenly spaced and jutting out of the otherwise flat surface and Seulgi scrunches her nose looking at it; it would hurt to crash into that. She can see cocoa powder gathering at the bottom of people's glasses of hot chocolate in a viscous form that wobbles when they bring it up and tilt it to their lips and it reminds her of the small things she misses in life- the sweet things.

Eventually, she tears her gaze away from the eccentric decor which she would much rather take in with a steaming cup of coffee because there's an impatient woman standing over another who is hunched over her table, two hands firmly secure around a cup of hot chocolate which she blows at occasionally. Her hair is long and a deep shade of brown with tips dyed blonde that sway dangerously close to the liquid tottering so very close to the point of overflowing (Seulgi can already make out the light brown trails on the white ceramic which point to that this has already happened). Her eyes are big and wide and her cheeks are full; she's young- likely in college and, most of all, she's human. She must be Yeri. The devil thinks that maybe if her bleach-tipped hair were to dip into her drink it would become the same colour as the rest of it but before she can snicker at the thought, her eyes are drawn to the woman above her who's inescapable impatience is clearly brewing.

"You're late." She says when Seulgi reaches the chair opposite Yeri who doesn't apologise; the woman always did like to trace the line where the boundaries of her authority waver.

"But you're Sooyoung-- the 'great Joy', no?" Seulgi answers, her previously fascinated expression fades into her usual facade. "It seems like you handled the few extra minutes well."

"Of course I did," Sooyoung retorts stiffly, her softly-shaped eyes not meeting Seulgi's. "Doesn't mean I enjoyed them."

"Mm," Seulgi brushes off her tiresome and spiritless complaints. "Well, I'm here now, am I not?"

"Yeah- you are," Joy says it with a quizzical tone, regarding her with what seems like caution. Sooyoung is quite a bit taller than the horned woman with hair the length to match; she's bored easily and irritated more often than she's bored but they tolerate one another's presence. Mostly. "Fancy you doing the same work as me."

"Yeah, don't sound so pleased about it," Seulgi replies curtly, her top lip curling as if she had forgotten that she didn't actually come here for a catch-up and a coffee like she so wished. "I wouldn't have chosen to be here."

"I get the feeling you'll take those words back soon." Joy responds cryptically, flashing a vague smile afterward.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Seulgi cocks an eyebrow, giving another scan to her surroundings, trying to track wherever Sooyoung's gaze is resting- a target which she eventually gives up attempting to locate.

"Nothing, I just think you'll grow to like it," The taller devil shrugs and Seulgi doesn't entirely believe what she just said. Her hands rest on the back of Yeri's chair who doesn't react in the slightest. "There are rumours spreading you know."

"About who? What?"

"About you."

"Me?"

"Yeah, you and some hornless girl," Joy says as if she isn't too sure of the words she's reciting either, possessing no idea that the sentence had made Seulgi's stomach lurch violently. Her eyes narrow, as if she knows more than she's letting on. "And absolutely nobody I've asked recognised her."

"Is that so?" Seulgi replies like the rumours are news to her. The space between her neck and her collar is feeling a little too hot right now but she resists the nerve to tug it away from her. Instead, she lifts her arm and ensures that her hair has fallen around her horns correctly, the movement shifting her clothing in a way that provided her with a little relief. She was unsure as to why she was so nervous; her and the angel never engaged in any activities other than a chat. And a fight. Other than that, she had left. Perhaps it was bad enough that'd she had let Irene go. "How unusual."

"Yeah, it is really odd. Especially since I asked a lot of people."

"Did it ever cross your mind that the majority of people wouldn't have seen anything at all?"

"Ah! So you're admitting it?" Sooyoung rounds her chair, sidling up the side of the table like she's sneaking closer to Seulgi who merely watches her with little intent to respond. "You were with someone?"

"That's not what I said, Joy."

"Sounds like it to me," She stands up again but now that's she closer, the way that she towers above Seulgi is a whole lot more obvious and, despite her status, it still sends a small tingle of nerves to her twitchy fingertips. "You should really be careful with who you associate with."

"You're telling me this?" They're close enough now that Seulgi can feel Joy's breath tickling her top lip and see the flecks in her dark eyes. It's uncomfortable.

"Because I won't hesitate to report you," Joy dismisses her and raises an eyebrow, her eyes trekking up and down her like she's inspecting her and matching to her respective title or perhaps the one she'd rather see her in. "I prioritise my job over mere acquaintances, let alone enemies."

"Watch your tongue or I'll cut it off!" Her taunting pause is enough to make anger simmer inside of Satan's second in command. She straightens up properly- she's still no match to Joy's physical stature but her authority is triple hers with a few added benefits, one of which is the ability of intimidation. Two can play that game. "Don't even think about threatening me; do you know who I am? I had reasons to keep this woman around me- reasons that you are in no position to even inquire about- even think about!" She stresses her words with added vexation, her volume consistently rising with each syllable- perhaps it's from Joy's ominous menace or from the nightmares riling up her distress or maybe even the mysterious angel she'd only met twice. "Keep playing at this little game of yours Sooyoung- it will lead you nowhere."

Joy doesn't reply. The words building in her throat are almost tangible, her bottom lip drawing in as if she's about to unleash some other arm-twisting coercion but then, as if they were never there in the first place, the staunchness in her expression is lost and her narrowed eyes are locking onto something behind the shorter devil. Sooyoung simply takes a deep breath, her shoulders which were undeniably tense, something that Seulgi hadn't even noticed, loosen and she takes a step back, an indifferent guise replacing her aggressiveness. Nonetheless, as she briskly walks past the devil, Seulgi doesn't fail to spot the small smirk curving at her lips and the knowing raise of an eyebrow.

Turning to follow the taller woman strut away with her eyes, she brushes past another woman- someone radiant and poised perfectly with bright, doe eyes and an easy-going smile. Bae Joohyun stands at a distance, her silhouette slightly darker being shrouded by the light pouring in from outside the coffee shop and streaking around her petite figure in rays and Seulgi's eyes are trained, unmoving upon her. They stand together in silence holding one another's gaze, the previous buzz of the coffee shop fading into nothing and the only thing Seulgi hears is Joy swinging the door open and beckoning in the wooshing of cars driving past in a world foreign to them both and the soft tapping of Irene's heels on the floor as she approaches.

"Hi, Seulgi."

Yeri finally takes a sip of her hot chocolate, exhaling out the hot air and wincing as the liquid leaves her tongue with an irritating, prickly sensation.

Seulgi spares the blissfully unaware girl a glance, the breakage between the torrid stare they shared making her aware of the way her nails were carving half-moons into the flesh of her forearm and how the aggressive nature she maintained with Joy had faded into nothing; replaced purely by shock which was not far ahead of her curiosity. Her thoughts were fragmented, her mind jumping unstably through them like a broken record: why? How? When? Now? Did she know? Is this planned?

Irene has deduced her confusion, judging by the smug expression on her face and she traipses past Seulgi with an air of ego and pride, both of which spark suspicion in the devil who rocks back on her heels with cautious apprehension. It's like she's pleased to see her as she rounds the table and assumes the spot Sooyoung had stood in but, despite her numerous perplexities, Seulgi thinks that she's a welcome replacement.

She seems more confident on earth, the air of anxiousness that usually floated around her like a red haze was more or less gone and Seulgi doesn't think she has the right to say 'usually' considering the fact that the two women barely know one another. She has a halo hovering a good few inches above her head this time and the luminescent ring lights up the space around her and makes her porcelain skin aglow with a radiance that only an angel would ever possess. Like a taunt slingshot, Seulgi can feel a pang of emotion shoot through her when she looks at it; irritation or jealousy? Perhaps both. Perhaps neither.

"Why are you here?" Seulgi wastes no time with lackluster greetings, an eyebrow cocked with expectation that she knows everyone responds to.

Irene, however, just languidly takes her time, her eyes are staring down at Yeri like she's analysing her, and only then does she lift her stare up to meet the devil's who stands impatiently. "I'm guarding Yeri. Why else?" She says it like it's obvious and Seulgi is already feeling an ebbing grief at having to deal with her obnoxiously distant and vague self. "Why do you look so annoyed? I've only been here for a minute."

"I'm not annoyed," Seulgi pinches the bridge of her nose and takes a deep breath, eyes closing for a few moments that fleet past quicker than she would have liked. She has been feeling like a taunt string all morning and Joy had frayed her edges and Irene was picking at them. She wasn't entirely sure whether to celebrate or complain. "Not at you."

"Oh, good," Irene's lips curve into a small smile and her shoulders push back and Seulgi notices that her eyes are on her body as she does so as if she's mirroring her posture. "You said yesterday I wouldn't do anything- well, here I am."

"What do you want?"

"Huh? What do you mean?" Irene physically recoils, eyebrows raising and pinching together with what looks like surprise or Seulgi thinks it could be the panic of being found out.

"You really shouldn't have taken up this job," Seulgi's hand drops to her side, her head slowly shaking. "There's already rumours spreading about me and some mysterious friendship. Plenty of them." She adds with a bite and if Joy was here, she knows she would be staring daggers at her.

"I see," Irene's surprise is genuine and her eyes flit off to the side as she ponders the situation. "Well, nobody knows it's me. And... friendship is a heavy word to put on it- it's not like I'm going to Hell again."

"You might as well."

"Hm?"

"You might as well have," Seulgi repeats and there's venom lacing her voice, her head tilting forwards, eyebrows raising scoldingly. "Going out of your way to find me is a little odd don't you think?"

"You told me where you were!"

"Yeah but-"

"What you said yesterday, wasn't an invitation?"

"No, of course not!"

"Then why'd you say it?"

Silence ensues. Yeri sips her hot chocolate obliviously.

Seulgi doesn't know how to respond. Irene's backed her into a corner; in the back of her mind she had hoped that Irene would take action upon hearing where she would be today but she certainly had not expected it. There was that small voice in her head reminding her what she could do with this situation- make it beneficial to you, use her, it says. But for what, she doesn't want to think about right now.

"This isn't illegal- it's a job. I'm not making it anything more than what you'll allow," Irene continues, clasping her hands and tapping one of her heels twice. She's laying the rules, placing down her cards- or some of them. "Am I sinning for wanting to talk to the woman who yanked me into a bathroom and beat me up?"

Sinning. She uses the word loosely, and Seulgi grits her teeth. "Was the bust lip not warning enough?"

As if she had forgotten about it, Irene's index finger tentatively lifts to the cut on her lip, gingerly brushing it. "But it was you who invited me to that hill to talk more," She has no reaction to the touch at first and Seulgi watches as she morbidly applies more pressure to the barely healed wound until she winces and pulls her hand away, looking back up at her. "I would have been gone in the blink of an eye otherwise."

"That's correct, but you intrigued me," At this, one of Irene's eyebrows raises, whether it be in genuine disbelief or mockery, Seulgi doesn't know. "But you had a choice in the matter whether you choose to admit it or not."

"I didn't know I did," Irene spits back and Seulgi can almost see the defensive bickering simmering in the air between them. Perhaps she's goaded at the angel enough- she was the instigator of this after all. "It is difficult to refuse an offer from Satan's second in command and that's not because you're charming."

Seulgi sucks in a sharp breath between her teeth at this, eyes darting to the ceiling in obvious agitation when she exhales. Instead of responding, she drags the chair back from beneath the table, making no effort to hide the grinding noise it emits as it scrapes along and sits down with little discernment. Irene copies her, aptly taking a spare chair and sitting besides Yeri, a little sideways from the table itself but she doesn't seem bothered. The devil props her elbows upon the edge of the table, her chin rested neatly on top of the back of her right hand, the left tapping on the wood, scratching absently at the already peeling varnish.

The constant thrum of life in the coffee shop has since faded to nothing as soon as Irene had arrived. She knows the commotion is still present, but she's completely in tune with the angel diagonal to her now, watching the tics of expression on her face and the way she poises herself, even listening to the intonations in the way she speaks. Nobody has ever chosen to be in her presence before and whilst it likely is for reasons that for now, Seulgi would like to leave uncovered, she can't help but feel a sense of elation, though given it is short-lived. Irene is equally quiet and other than that, she can deduce very little else.

"Being Satan's second hand..." She begins her words slowly as if she was approaching a sensitive subject. It's like she's testing hot water with her fingertips. "There's not really anywhere else for you to go is there?"

"Not really," Seulgi agrees, cautious at the mellower turn of their previous snide altercation. "I could go down the ranks, I suppose but I won't let that happen."

"So, you don't get bored? Or scared?" Irene asks. "Seeing as we live eternally, you'll just stay the same forever or... lose your promotions."

"Little jobs like these make it more entertaining and these types of interactions," Seulgi doesn't bother to deny the boredom of it all- that trait comes without saying in the afterlife. "But scared? No, if it happens, it happens. Wouldn't you know about it? I expect they wouldn't send a grunt to infiltrate Hell."

Irene's eyes look as though they spark to attention when Seulgi steers the conversation towards her. "No, but they might as well have considering the mess I made of it," She murmurs disheartened. "I suppose you're right."

"You're not a grunt?" Seulgi presses.

"No," Irene shakes her head, one of her legs crossing over the other and Seulgi can hear the sliding from the material of her clothing as she does it. "An archangel."

"Ah," Seulgi's facade becomes one of disinterest. "In Heaven, do you know the person who previously held your position?"

"Yeah, almost everyone does," Irene pauses when she sees Seulgi's head tilt slightly in what she assumes to be a spike of curiosity. "But I don't know who used to hold mine. No one will tell me. He's exiled or something now," She says it with a tang of irritation as if the question was bugging her as much as it was Seulgi. "Do you know the last second in command?"

"Yeah, a woman called Sooyoung," Seulgi waves her hand dismissively; she wants to move on from her. "We don't get along very well."

It looks like Irene wants to ask more about her, but she refrains, leaning back further in her seat. It continues like this for a while longer, a back and forth spew of questions and answers peppered with silence or tension whenever one gets too close to information the other isn't ready to divulge. It's like they know what's on the line here, yet with bravery or stupidity or some other concoction of the two, they walk across the tight-rope like acrobats. It's refreshing, learning about the other's way of life from themselves unlike the stagnant propaganda they're both force-fed from their respective homes. Not only is it refreshing, but it's addicting. Seulgi finds herself clawing at each little fact Irene gives away, clutching at information that maybe she shouldn't know and she can tell that Irene's is doing the same, thinking the same. Yet, despite it all, they grow increasingly comfortable in one another's presence. Perhaps it's the mutually assured destruction they have created; an environment where both of them have as much to lose as the other and in turn, they've manufactured peace or maybe something else is driving them entirely: a craving to bridge the gap between species torn apart by millenniums of war. Briefly, there's thought of something much more human than the both of them were familiar with-- wanting to know somebody, grow closer to them.

There's a moment of tension between them when Yeri finally finishes her hot chocolate, eyes preying upon her untouched sandwich. She takes a bite and both the archangel and the devil watch her quietly, their questions having come to a natural halt when they decided they had disclosed enough for one day-- fed enough information illegally to the other side is a harsher way to put it but neither will say it and thus, it brings no bother for now.

Yeri runs a hand through her hair, picking at a loose strand that has entangled itself around her finger but, instead of discarding it, she holds it between her fingers with scrutiny and a look of guilefulness and both women immediately know what she's about to do. Struggling intern puts hair in their food to get it for free; a story well-told by most and well-rehearsed by many. As small as the incident is, it's a stark reminder of their positions as Irene leans forwards in her seat, intent on ensuring that Yeri lets the thought go. It's a part of the dynamic that Seulgi both despises and finds intriguing; on the surface, getting her sandwich for free is good for her but in the long-term it causes damage to small businesses. Do angels think about those types of things? Do they ignore the small cries of moral dilemmas that plague individuals or prioritise industries and corporations that form the very foundations of the society these individuals dwell in? It usually would serve as an amusing plaything for Seulgi but having spoken to Irene, she's able to see the pinnacle of balance unfold before them at the conflicted expression wavering across Yeri's face.

Without a doubt, Seulgi could continue this little feud between them longer but she relinquishes with not even a word, watching stoically as Yeri casts the strand of her two-toned hair away. Irene's eyes dart up- she wasn't expecting for things to go so smoothly, especially without a few choice words for the other. "Why'd you do that?"

"I'm going easy on you," Seulgi replies almost smugly despite her failure. "Giving you a head start."

"I don't need one."

"Sure thing, archangel." Seulgi crosses her arms, not bothering to extend the conversation any longer.

After their prolonged harmony, she doesn't want to tell Irene that perhaps, she's just bored of being the devil's advocate.


	4. IV

Irene was fixing up her hair in a mirror when her head turns to her front door from where a beige envelope slips through the letterbox and drops unceremoniously to the floor with a weak thwack when the paper wobbles and eventually slackens. Approaching it, she can tell it's an official letter, made clear by the seal made of marbled blue wax and imprinted with the heavenly crest which she breaks open by slipping her thumb beneath it. More poignantly, who else sends letters nowadays? She wonders why they waste time and materials with these sorts of 'traditional courtesies' that the high council is so eager to uphold. Does some poor angel sit and press wax seals all day every day? She can remember thinking that it looked pretty when she was still alive on earth and, whilst she certainly garnered some satisfaction from it, she wouldn't be able to do it as a job-- especially not for the rest of her eternal life.

Pulling away the envelope reveals sleek, premium-feeling paper and light ripples off of its surface as she unfolds it. The same crest dons the corner of the letter and it's clearly addressed to her, it's words baring a foreboding sense of formality despite it's curtness.

Meant for Bae Joohyun (Bae Irene),

the council has reviewed your re-entry to earth in the form of your recent loyalty test. Tomorrow please ensure that you come to collect your results as, depending on the judgement, you may have to act immediately. Any activities that are scheduled, whether it be social or professional must be postponed for this event.

Her loyalty test. It had utterly slipped her mind ever since she had a fateful brush with almost-treason in Hell and there's a feeling of guilt prodding at her too; she knows she'll pass her test, however, she doesn't know if she's entirely deserving of keeping her position. Every high-ranking member of both Heaven and Hell take these tests whenever their council deems it appropriate. They are reinstated on earth from the very beginning of a human life cycle with no memories (as they could possibly corrupt the morals that guide their actions) until they die and return to their respective supernatural homes. From there, they are re-judged on their newest human behaviour with the idea that, if they are loyal enough to heaven (or hell) it would be made clear on earth too. The test had always brushed Irene the wrong way; there were just too many variables on earth that could cause an angel-turned-human to act the wrong way. Despite this, she never complained. Why would she? She passed her last test with flying colours and was given the position of archangel and she's almost sure this one will go the same way. As an added bonus, it allows her to keep in touch with human society. Nonetheless, she can't help the feeling of shame from clutching her-- purposely becoming a guardian to gain information from a devil on an unauthorised mission is one thing, but essentially befriending them? Irene is sinking into the mire.

She'll have to tell Seulgi that she won't be able to guard the following day when she sees her later. Today will mark twenty days since they started guarding together. Briefly, she wonders if it's unusual that she's been counting the days but the countdown does little more than annoy her if anything; a reminder that, despite the time they've spent together, Irene has managed to extract very little information from her other than the fact that they're running low on guardians. It's worrying to think that perhaps their little meetups were becoming more than just professional considering that the angel almost looks forwards to seeing Satan's second in command each day. They'd certainly grown closer but, on second thought, maybe closer wasn't the correct word, more-so comfortable in one another's presence.

Their second day maintained the same level of tension as the first-- both guardians skirted about an invisible barrier with a flightiness that would suggest coming into contact with it would have them blown apart or some other gruesome ending that could match it. It was like the initial shock of seeing one another for the second time had dissipated into caution, like archaeologists slowly picking their way through an artifactual site as they as moved in a metaphorical dance, coming closer than any angel and devil ever should but never quite breaching the barrier that thwarted them.

It was only on the fifth day did they ever rupture the membrane. Irene mistakenly reached to take a coffee from the waiter who was giving it to Yeri and she was too slow to retract her hand before Seulgi noticed it. The devil had said something like 'old habits die hard' and Irene had lamely answered with a pun about how they had already died but Seulgi laughed and so did she and that was when Irene felt the spark. Like a single butterfly awakening from it's cocoon in her stomach and slowly beginning to flutter its papery wings, testing the air before it takes flight. And take flight it did when Seulgi's eyes curved upwards into crescents, which she's sure obscured her vision, with that same damned smile that she had noticed on that fated infiltration. Irene remembers thinking on that day that she would have found that adorable on anybody else, but she was beginning to come round to seeing it on the devil's advocate herself. It was all terrifying, tempting and she wanted more of the tantalising feeling of butterflies flittering in her stomach.

Despite their friendship, which was pleasantly blossoming in its early days, there were still diminutive details surrounding Seulgi that Irene had yet to find anything out about. Firstly, there was a woman, most likely a devil, that she saw almost every day passing her. She was tall, slim, elegant and most of all, brazen with an artificial look of calmness on her face when she struts past, hair flowing behind her, but that wasn't the problem Irene had with this proud woman; it was the look on Seulgi's face. She looked uneasy, Irene would even go as far to say even a little vulnerable-- apprehensive, although perhaps she was being presumptuous. Seeing the woman who is usually so hubristic, seem so belittled was startlingly harrying to her. What could this woman possibly be doing, saying or holding over her horned head that elicited such a reaction?

Another thing she had noticed, possibly even queerer than this bizarre relationship with the haughty stranger (which could just be down to old grudges) was how Seulgi yielded her efforts to make Yeri sin every single time she had the chance. Not once has she tried to stop Irene or compete with her in any way despite it being her job, that's not just unusual-- it's teetering on the edge of being illegal, and she's not even adding that she's the second most powerful devil in Hell into the equation. Irene wonders if their unusual friendship is making her hesitant to 'beat' her at her own game but, as she ponders more, it just doesn't seem plausible. Every reason she has in her head feels like the last puzzle piece which just doesn't fit the picture, except, there are so many holes in the final jigsaw and not enough pieces to fill any of them and so it lies there-- incomplete and unsolvable.

Irene casts away the shimmering letter that has been wavering in her hands on the spot for well over ten minutes. She has more important things to attend to for now.

* * *

She spots Seulgi from down the street, her lean figure resting against the brick wall beside the reflective glass panes. It had become an unspoken rule for the punctual devil to stand in wait for Irene so that they can walk inside together. Irene's not sure why, it's another one of the many little idiosyncrasies surrounding the woman that pique her interest. She is unaware of Irene, as to be expected. Today their shift is at night, Yeri being in the mood for a midnight drink under the stars, the dark sky starkly contrasting the lights trailing up and down the lit up buildings which line the streets, growing further away until, to her eyes, they meet in the middle of the horizon line. The yellowish incandescence sweeping through the windows shrouds the devil's figure, darkening her silhouette in a ghostly manner which eccentuates the pointed horns on her head. She looks almost fictional, a figure of her imagination with her dark hair cascading over her shoulders to avoid the wall on which her broad shoulders rest on and Irene is pithily reminded of how far apart they really are no matter what delusions of their relationship she conjures up in her head.

When she finally notices Irene and her effulgent halo approaching her down the pavement, she prostrates fully, pushing her shoulders back to launch herself off of the wall with that same impeccable posture that the angel has so duly noticed and she smiles, her cheeks rounding and eyes shaping into half-moons much like the ones Irene is pressing into her skin with her nails-- it's not cold yet. Why does she suddenly feel so nervous? She thinks it's the night sky reminding her of the time they spent together on that hilltop in Hell. She doesn't think she's scared of Seulgi, at least not any more than she was when they came fist-to-fist in a compact bathroom.

As soon as she's in relative earshot, Seulgi greets her. "Hi, it's a late one today, hm?"

"It is, but I'm okay with that," Irene admits, returning the smile from the devil that glows even in the darkened street with her own. "How are you?"

"I'm good, a little bored at that." And the angel believes her; it doesn't seem like Seulgi's had a brush with the mysterious woman she so often sees.

"I'm sorry for keeping you waiting."

Seulgi lets out a small laugh at that, stepping diagonally towards the door in a manner that ushers Irene through it and into the secluded ambience of the coffee shop. "You didn't, I just like to arrive early."

Yeri's sitting at her usual table, half-drank hot chocolate sits stilly in front of her and cocoa powder settles viscously at the bottom of the glass. Her attention has been on a book she has flattened the spine of for a long time it seems and Irene wonders if her hot chocolate is still as hot as its name would suggest. Due to the time, the usually bustling nature of the shop is much more relaxed and with it comes a feeling of unanimous comfort; it feels as though the two women are simply enjoying a visit out together rather than attending a job. Only one member of staff is behind the counter, the foot traffic falling low enough that they sit on a stool, ensnared by their phone with very little worry. There's at most five other people sitting individually on their own tables, all engrossed in their own little worlds but Irene's attention is solely on Seulgi who has drifted away from Yeri's table and is preying on an empty booth two sets down from her.

She notices the quirk in Irene's eyebrow and offers her a re-assuring nod. Everything seems so mellow under the etiolated light, like they're in slow motion or wading through water. "I thought maybe we could sit down?" Seulgi says, her tone suggestive. "There's no need for us to stand." Irene agrees and follows after her and they simultaneously sink into opposite sides of the booth and, like everyone else in the shop, it feels like they have immediately entered their own, private world which is unassailable to anybody but them. They're unbeknownst to those beyond, both in their minds and literally for, in reality, Irene knows that nobody is aware of their presence no matter where they are and what they do but this booth, this haven, is their own.

For a while, they sit comfortably in this silence which has enveloped them, the only noise being the clunking of ceramics hitting wooden tables and the scrape of Yeri's book pages turning and Irene feels like a child shielding beneath the untouchable blanket that defends them from the monsters of the night and the dark and she wonders whether Seulgi is experiencing the same feeling. Maybe they're sharing this together. She should see Seulgi herself as the midnightly monster but instead, she is her companion and the only threat lurking beyond the blanket is simply the gap between them; the unbridgeable gap between Heaven and Hell. Irene doesn't know if it's the night, the lights or just Seulgi herself making her feel so connected to her surroundings.

"You're very away with the fairies today." Seulgi comments good-naturedly, breaking the tranquility.

Proving her point, Irene's attention is yanked back into the palm of the devil opposite her and she half-smiles like she's been caught red-handed. "Is that really any surprise?" She answers, eyes flitting to the sky outside. "I have quite the reputation for that."

"You do."

"I think it's the night time."

"I assumed so," Seulgi adjusts herself in her seat, breathing deeply. "I think the last time we spent together at night was the day after we met."

"Ah! You were thinking that too?" Irene answers almost too enthusiastically, her eyes lighting up at the prospect that her and Seulgi's thoughts were alike. "I feel almost nostalgic."

"What? About the busted lip I gave you and the scratched face you gave me?" Seulgi asks, eyebrow cocking and tone dripping with playful sarcasm.

"Well, I healed quite nicely-- plus I'm still not entirely sure how I scratched you," Irene retorts blithely. "I think I pulled the short straw with my blood-stained shirt."

At this Seulgi audibly scoffs, leaning forwards in her seat. "Ahh, much like the wine-stained top you ruined?" It's not a question. "My favourite, most expensive top?"

Irene bites back her words, her defeated lips forming a pout. She does still feel guilt over that slip-up but, perhaps, without it she wouldn't be sitting opposite the woman. "At least it's a funny memory?" She says tentatively through gritted teeth to which Seulgi just rolls her eyes and blows air out through her grimace, signalling the end of that conversation and Irene follows her alarm to a certain degree, instead leaning forwards and initiating another one. "You know, you never did tell me why that woman choked hearing your name." She's careful with her words, ensuring that she doesn't give away that she knows 'that woman' as an angel called Wendy. She thinks she's already given this woman too much information for free.

"Yes I did."

"Mh? What did you say?"

"I said that I didn't have a clue what you were talking about."

"Exactly!"

"It's an answer though."

"I don't want just an answer," Irene huffs, growing slightly irritated at the way the devil always effortlessly seems to dance around her words like she might as well just be throwing cotton balls at her. Two of her fingers tap on the peeling wood with mock impatience.

"I want doesn't get."

"Can't you just tell me something straight for once?"

"I've told you I'm not sure what you're on about."

Irene scoffs. "You literally glared at her!"

"I glare at a lot of people, Irene." Seulgi gives her one of her infamous stares and Irene almost physically recoils; she isn't away with the fairies enough to stop her from detecting that the daggered gaze is being projected with half-seriousness, a warning if you will. The silent that falls over them is borderline unbearable, Irene fidgeting with the need to both ask more questions and maintain this relationship of theirs. Their little back and forths like this are always perplexing on where they both stand. Are they friends or are they just working and tolerating one another's presence? Irene thinks the line between those two outcomes is very thin and she's pushing on it with her weight a maybe too hard because everything is starting to merge together into one, weird, unorthodox concoction.

Seulgi's eyes aren't on Irene anymore, staring at somebody behind her who she can only assume is Yeri and they both relinquish into the quiet. Irene finds herself occassionally sending the young girl a glance too. She knows that their guarding of her isn't quite normal, but she's almost grateful for her. Yeri is the only thing that Irene and Seulgi share which unites them in some kind of twisted way. Besides, with the devil's unusual habit of surrendering to good, she likes to think that she's doing a nice job with her. Seulgi and Yeri will handle one day without her just fine, she's sure of it. When she looks back to verbalise this, Seulgi's eyes are already upon her and there's something flickering behind her irises that makes whatever words she was planning on saying hitch in her throat.

"Irene," She says, one of her hands forming a tent-like shape on the table as if she's proposing a business deal, her eyes following it when she slides it a few inches fowards before they return to the angel opposite her. "Come back with me."

"What?"

"To Hell."

Irene's expression slackens and she sits frozen. She can feel something shooting up through her torso and down her arms which makes her fingers twitch and it's certainly not caffeine. Hell? Seulgi's out of her mind. Who in their right mind would ask that? Angels who abscond from Heaven have always been the lowest of the low in her mind but now as she sits here staring straight-faced at a devil, whom, she can't deny that she's grown to like, she can't help but wonder where this misconstructed propaganda against them has spawned from. Seulgi looks so sincere, eyes soft and honest, eyebrows raised by a fraction of millimetre like she's genuinely awaiting a serious response-- if she hadn't any horns, Irene thinks she'd mistake her for an angel but, not even moments after that, her back stiffens. Was she considering her offer? She really is a disgusting excuse for an angel. And, though it wasn't her intent, clearly her thoughts are being translated through her expressions because Seulgi's look of candidness is fading.

"You're serious?"

"I am."

"I don't want to go to Hell, Seulgi," Irene says as if she's exasperated, crestfallen that the woman would ask such an unmentionable thing after she had thought everything was going so well. "Why would I ever want that?"

"I think we're similar." She replies simply.

"You've said that before and I'll say it again: we're not."

Seulgi seems unfazed. "You will suit it."

"I 'will'?" Irene repeats incredulously, looking about and adjusting herself in her seat as if she had just been caught in a comprimising position, as if they were actually arguing in a place where the people around them would acknowledge them-- could acknowledge them. Her voice is growing louder, peaking over the hum of the lights, the thrumming of the machines behind the counter and the clunking of cups on wood. "What's gotten you into the idea that I 'will'?"

"We enjoy one another's presence," Seulgi says almost as if Irene's behaviour is making her think twice about her words. "At least, I thought we did."

"Not enough for me to go to Hell for God's sake." Irene snaps curtly.

"You're making things so much more difficult." Seulgi spits back, leaning back in her seat, her skin is heating up and she cools it against the cold leather of the chair, breathing in deeply and briefly resting her eyes.

Irene just pauses and stares in disbelief. What was that supposed to mean? She feels like she's running back and forth, trying to collect pieces of this puzzle which are plummeting down to the ground and smashing into unsalvageable sizes. Everything had felt relatively normal, save the unusual levels of cortisol in her system, until now. What does Seulgi know that she doesn't? With a thick stab of guilt, she is hit with the realisation that perhaps she isn't the only person with an ulterior motive in this 'alliance' and yet she can't even be angry; she's simply at a loss.

"If you were to accept," Seulgi continues, steering the one-sided conversation in an even more perplexing direction, eyes narrowing with both curiosity and what Irene interprets as malice, although she's most likely mistaken with this proposal buzzing in her head misaligning her thoughts. "What would happen to your position? Being an archangel and all. Would it just be vacant?"

"What?" Irene sticks her head forwards accusingly, eyebrows knitting together. "Why are you so interested in different positions in Heaven, Seulgi?"

"Oh, so you're turning this on me now?" It's like she can almost see something inside of Seulgi switch on like her body was a circuit and electricity was shooting through her. Her eyes are suddenly more feline, her lips parting with what looks like shock and disgust. "But yeah, let's forget why we're here in the first place."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"What do you, want from me?" One of Seulgi's hands is clenched into a fist, the other pointing at the both of them respectively. Her voice is wavering, like she's struggling to maintain her volume despite the fact that she could scream at the top of her lungs and nobody would hear them. "I think we both know that you're not here to have a cutesy, 'exotic' friendship which you can brag about to all of your angelic, little friends." Her voice is laced with venom. Laced with pain.

"I'm not trying to extract anything from you!" Irene responds as if she had just been accused of federal crime and, despite the defensiveness she adopts, Seulgi isn't entirely wrong. She had initially continued their meets because she noticed she could boost her own status in Heaven but within days, her agenda shifted and she had failed to complete the only job she set herself: get information, don't be friendly. "Why can't you accept that I just. Don't. Want. To go to Hell."

"That's not what this is about anymore," Seulgi's upper lip curls slightly, the distain on her face couldn't be more clear and Irene feels something cracking inside of her. "and you know it."

If Seulgi is aware of her 'scheme', why does she welcome her everyday with open arms? "Then why do you keep coming?" She forces out. "Waiting at the door for me everyday? And perpetuating this—" She waves her hands about to lavish her words, "thing?"

"I'm giving you fair game over Yeri," Seulgi responds, her voice is low and heavy like Irene's struck a nerve. "I've told you something like this before."

"Yeah, fair game." Irene rises in her seat. She's an the attack now and there's no going back. It's as if she's turning the volume slowly up on a set of speakers, every decibel having a different effect on those captured in the sound. "Because it's fair when you let me win the poor girl over every time!"

Seulgi stands abruptly and Irene is shunned into silence, her head tipping upwards to stare at her, their eyes meeting in a stare so intense that she's convinced the woman's irises will be burnt into her retina when they part. She can see her own apprehensive image twinned in them. "You have no idea what you're talking about." And with that, Seulgi is walking away. Exiting their little world, their private booth and she's out of the coffee shop and Irene's standing too, sending one glance to Yeri and then back to Seulgi, then Yeri and then she's moving like she's in a trance.

Yeri's alone in the shop when Irene catches onto Seulgi's wrist and she twists around and there is a silence over them that neither much likes and the world beyond them won't stop moving and cars are rushing past and Irene doesn't even have time to wonder about why there are so many of them so late at night before Seulgi's lips are against her own and it's only then do the cars slow down, and the heated electricity, conducted by their arguement, which pulsates through the both of them curb into a throbbing heartbeat and the sparks meet in the middle of them. Yeri isn't their only exchangeable trait anymore because now they're physically connected, their lips moving in tangent with one another. Seulgi's head is tilted down and she's sure she can feel her hands on her waist and regret ebbs in the back of her mind but it's something she'll deal with after because now it's just Seulgi and nothing else.

But then Seulgi's gone, only inches away and Irene is left star-struck, catching her breath from it all as nothing moves but the wind which nips at her cheeks and her uneven breathing coming out as a pale vapour, illuminated in the same tawny light of the coffee shop. Even the cars have stopped moving. Now their 'exchangeable trait' is just the light flush of red that's coating their cheeks and it's certainly not from the cold wind because Irene can see the evidence in the form of Seulgi's lipstick which isn't quite the same shape as her lips.

"Fuck- I'm sorry, no-"

"What?"

"I'll have another guardian put in tomorrow; you won't see me again."

"Wait- Seulgi, we can talk-"

"No, no, we can't. Don't follow me, okay? I'm going back to Hell."

"But, you wanted me there."

"Not now," She's turning away already, facing the frost which whips her hair back and forces her eyes into a squint. "Clearly you're too good for that." And Irene can't tell whether it's malice or hurt or affection in her voice but even worse, Seulgi's back is to her and she doesn't know if it'll be the last time she ever sees the devil's advocate.


	5. [TW] V

[TW: implied self-harm in a skippable scene at the very end]

Seulgi has no idea why she had done it. Irene's fingers wrapping around her wrist had sent a shock of electricity shooting up her arm and she thinks that, if she had been dead at the time, it would have acted the same as a defibrillator. It certainly feels like she's dying from the shame of it all. Reflecting, her decisions weren't coherent with any 'storyline' she could conjure up in an attempt to relieve both the humiliation and regret that were manifesting into physical pain in her chest. She was illogical in every sense of the word. Twenty days isn't a long time at all to know somebody, especially if you live in opposite worlds and even more so if those worlds have been locked in war since they were just a mere glint in some greater being's eye. Alongside this, there is no substantial reason that she felt the need to kiss the angel; they hadn't entertained any flirtatious advancements between one another, nor even hinted at the prospect and yet, at that moment, when she spun around and saw the genuine concern twinned in Irene's eyes and the way her shallow breathing came out in vaporous puffs, she couldn't help but connect the gap between them like magnets. Except, one of them was not magnetised in the slightest and she had not only forcefully attracted it but, most likely, repelled it permanently.

Seulgi accredits it to not wanting to lose one of the only real connections she'd made since she had arrived in Hell. Like kissing her after an argument was going to be the crucial move that conserved their 'friendship' if that's what it could still be called. Perhaps such a movement would assure Irene that her platonic affections were real and maybe not strictly just that but something else, something so foreign to her that she's forgotten just what it felt like until now and yet this divine feeling was directed to somebody she could never touch nor get to know. Forbidden from enjoying sweet outings or romantic evenings or simply just smiling at one another in a way that wasn't deemed as provoking. Not only was the little shenanigan relationship-ruining, but it was beyond illegal. Fraternising with anybody even mildly associated with Heaven was a sure-fire way to get yourself exiled and, as Satan's second in command, she's fairly sure the angels aren't exactly going to welcome her with open arms. Seulgi doesn't even want to dwell on the fate of those who's souls can rest on neither side; dead on earth and unwanted on it's posthumous counterparts. She has distributed that destiny to plenty; she doesn't want to be on the receiving end of it.

What makes everything even worse was the fact that Irene made little known about her feelings surrounding their perplexing situation. Seulgi isn't oblivious; she knows that the angel stuck around to weed out some extra information from her, but the fact that once she did acquire some she never left, makes her cling onto the possible shreds of mutual affection they might share. The stigma that surrounds devils is not one of news to her and it's certainly not as if it is an unjust image-- in fact, it's entirely accurate. That's why she hates it. It doesn't apply to her (something she had tried to portray each time her and Irene met) and yet she sits at the left-hand-side of Satan and pretends to revel in the power to the point that her rivals are bitter over her 'scathing' presence.

She has 'horns that could prick fingers' according to many; a phrase used to describe devils with mean streaks or awful human pasts and, at this, she gingerly brings her hand to the red points rooted in her head. They're as tangible as ever, smooth and wine-dark and they curve at a slight angle inwards. If anything, they are perfect or as perfect as the features of a demon could be. Aligned perfectly with the illustrations and the fiction, Seulgi knows that she is what every devil aspires to be like. She could see it in their stares which they hid futilely behind drained glasses and the way they nervously tussled their hair when they spoke to her and yet here she is, taking hesitant steps down the path leading up to the irresistible coffee shop.

She doesn't know why she's here. After telling Irene that she'd have a new guardian put in place, there's little reason to be but, nonetheless, there's a glimmer of hope forcing her to assess the damage and, if she's ready to admit it, see the angel herself. It's stupid really. She's aware of Irene's ulterior motives; nothing about their relationship was natural-- not the meeting, nor the bonding.

It's in the late afternoon, the white light of the sun has swept away any evidence of last night's escapades. The door she had waited at was propped open, welcoming in a breeze and the yellow lights that precariously line the ceiling are nowhere to be seen. It's utterly transformed-- like another world or, as Seulgi so desperately wished, like it had never even happened in the first place. Although she came with the intention of looking, she doesn't want to see. Her eyes tentatively peering through the vague, distorted pane of glass like a student afraid to look at their test results.

She can see the booth they sat at largely untouched save a small ring of coffee yet to be wiped off. Yeri sits in silence, looking distracted and the general thrum of the shop is pulsing but there's no sign of Irene. Everything's present except the one thing she wants. She feels like a ship who's anchor is refusing to catch the ground. When it finally hooks onto a rock, it shatters into a million fragments and, once again, the ship is cast into a never-ending, grating journey and she's just so sick. Is this snowball ever going to stop rolling? Or is she going to continuously keep picking up more detrimental flaws until the snowball inevitably breaks apart or melts? She's so tired. There is no wind in Seulgi's sails anymore.

Walking inside she's greeted by nobody and it makes her heart sink. Knowing Irene as a woman who doesn't know when to stop, her absence is ten times more prominent. Perhaps that's why Seulgi is so drawn to her-- they both have a hubristic lack of self-restraint. Life is a game and love is the prize. Seulgi thinks whoever made that phrase up was wearing rose-tinted glasses because she's only got one life left and zero prizes to show for it.

Mentally, she curses herself; she can't just leave Yeri alone now. It would be nice if she could confide in the young girl who sits in blissful ignorance, both present through everything and unaware of it all simultaneously, but she also wouldn't want to pile the fears of an ancient devil onto a human who's life span is as long as the time she's known Irene. Irene. Irene. Irene. That name won't get out of her head.

Before she can exhaustedly slump into the chair opposite of her, Yeri rises from her seat, her eyes are glued to her screen like she's forgotten something and she's walking away, leaving a half empty cup with trickles of liquid running down its side unattended. It was unusual for her to not tidy up after herself. It was something Seulgi had noticed she always did and with a pang of guilt, she remembers that without Irene, or any guardian angel for that matter, (it's not as if she cares) there is nobody to balance out the natural inclination to do evil she forces onto those who she oversees.

Seulgi follows her and someone behind the counter huffs, probably upon spotting Yeri's unclean table but it's too late to look back now because they're walking down the street fairly quickly and Yeri's getting into a car and she thinks it's probably an uber so she clambers in too, instantly feeling the seclusion of the backseat closing her off from the world outside. Yeri tells the driver directions and it's only then does Seulgi realise that it's the first time she has actually heard her voice. It's low but soft and melodic and Seulgi wants to hear it more.

The journey is short, made even shorter by last night's events replaying in her mind like a broken record and the daydreaming devil is glad to be finally pulled out of the loop when Yeri's car door clicks open and she mimics her and does the same. It feels natural, like two friends arriving together. Alas, it is anything but as Yeri walks inside a towering building, that she can only assume is student accomodation, with the tense posture of a girl who is alone.

Yeri's phone screen flashes on and off, resounding small dings and Seulgi curiously peers at it. Texts are lining the notification bar and thickening by the second. Something about a party. She sees the word alcohol flash by a few times and some other slang word that she doesn't recognise but other than that, it's clear what Yeri's currently dressing up for. Her hair is gathered in a sleek ponytail and she's wearing a fitted black, sparkling dress to match and Seulgi already feels underdressed despite knowing there will be no reception to her outfit.

Soon enough the uber they sit in swings heedlessly into an avenue with lavish, sun-tanned houses lining it that look like they have been plucked straight from the streets of Spain-- or at least Spain in the movies. Seulgi doesn't know, she's never been there. The journey here was longer this time, they're far away from decrepit student buildings and homes for the elderly which slump with years of dejection. No, no. Whoever owns these houses use their evident surplus of money to play squash and taste wine. Seulgi's almost expecting a bouncer to be guarding the door with a red velvet rope and a list but they both pass through unchecked.

As soon as the door shuts behind them, they're secluded in a world of glimmering, neon lights in the dark which bounce off flat, harsh surfaces and the crowds wobble in the misconstrued rays of colour. Music is booming through loudspeakers and Seulgi can feel the vibrations in her body and swears she can almost see the thick soundwaves themself. People laugh here and there and others are gathered in clusters around TVs and sofas and counters and a extensive buffet table laden with cups, sandwiches, egg rolls and other such foods and Yeri has picked up a cocktail sausage and a cup of, what is presumably, beer and is already flitting around the different crowds. She's nodding her head at both people and to the beat of the music but whether she actually recognises all the people she's greeting, Seulgi doesn't know-- she certainly wouldn't.

Seulgi feels like some kind of celibate huddling around the outskirts of throngs of people and she knows they aren't but she can't help but feel judging stares gauging holes into her sides as she clumsily slips through people in an effort to keep up with Yeri who just won't stop moving. One beer is turning into two and now Seulgi's losing count every time she drops behind someone else's silhouette. The music is blaring and loud and the strong lights make the actual colour of the room ungaugeable. She didn't even get a good look at the house itself before she was dragged into it's pulsating depths. She thinks there were some elongated staircases by the front and large open arches in place of doors which lead into a series of rooms connecting the kitchen and dining room and the living room which, she has to admit, make a good layout for an open space party.

She almost wishes that she could just sink into the crowds and fall into the beat of the music and close her eyes and dance with people she doesn't recognise but there's that same name in her head again: Irene. Irene won't forgive her if she let something happen to Yeri, she's sure of it. The woman is a literal angel and, judging by her reaction to Seulgi's unprecedented kiss, she probably cares more for Yeri than she does a devil. In fact, the most she probably cares for her is ensuring that she won't anger the horned woman enough to lose her head or something. She had made those thoughts clear on multiple occasions and each confession hurt more than the last.

How long have they been here? Seulgi hasn't a clue but the music isn't letting up nor is the energy of the attendees and that includes Yeri. The usually reserved girl is making her way through alcohol like Irene on the night they met and ensuring that she personally gets to know what feels like every single guest she comes across. Her previously slickened ponytail has loosened considerably but her dress is still as form-fitting as ever. She's smiling and laughing and giggling at jokes that really aren't funny and completely unaware of Satan's second in command tailing every movement she makes.

Yeri's head is a mess. If she holds up her hands in front of her, the fragmented thoughts in her head can't quite piece together which way is left and which way is right. But it doesn't matter anyway. She can't hold up her hands because one holds a cup and the other clings to any surface she can use as leverage to maintain her diminishing balance which only wanes away more in the disorientating lightshow. She is more flushed than usual, her face is scarlet but not from the neon and she revels in her insobriety. It has been a long time since she has felt this relaxed. Like something in her just changed, just once. The stresses of her studies are gone as if they never existed, except they do but she isn't registering that. The low lights wherein she dances are what she knows now and the people around her are laughing so she laughs too but she can't hear them over the music and the blood rushing past her ears. Maybe they're laughing at her but she doesn't know. She doesn't care; ignorance is a blessing and a choice and alcohol inhibits both.

Frankly, it's been a long time since she's done anything relatively interesting outside of sitting in the same coffee shop debating things in her head. Since last night, things have cleared and she's taking full advantage of the clarity and using it to fog her brain with her own drunken state. Contradictory but, oh boy, was it fun. Before her sobriety slipped between her fingers, she had noted how this 'house party' really felt like a club. She takes another sip of beer, swallows, and laughs again. It tastes cheap but it does the job although she's certainly not an expert on expensive alcohol. Is there even a difference like that in beer? She's half considering taking what she thinks is a lit joint from someone's outstretched hand belonging to a face she doesn't recognise before the crowd of laughing people sway away and carries her with them and the glowing embers of the joint merge back into the LEDs.

"Yeri!"

Yeri turns. She doesn't know who this man is nor how he knows her name. "Yeah?"

"There's a pool!"

"A what?"

"A pool!"

It's hard to hear him over the music. "A bool?"

"Yeah! Come this way!"

Yeri follows him, flanked on either side by other curious onlookers who have not yet discovered the accessibility of the ranging outdoors beyond the reverberating walls. She's very curious indeed to find out what a 'bool' is and even more so why it's on the second floor of the house. She thinks the stairs are steep and they're laughing again, definitely at her this time because her feet feel leaden and she imagines that if she were looking at someone in the same circumstances, she would laugh too.

The music is subdued up here and Seulgi breathes a sigh of relief. Perhaps she's deciding to take a break from the incessant booming? She can still feel it throbbing at the base of her skull and almost thinks she might feel something wobbling beneath her skin when she brings a hand up to put some pressure on it. The landing up here is less permeated with the odour of cannabis and people, the population matching it but many rooms have their doors locked and Seulgi isn't in much of a mood to find out what's going on the other side of them.

Luckily, Yeri and her newfound posse don't seem to have the same idea and are instead walking through an expansive corridor that leads them past the less-than-mysterious locked doors. They appear aimless but clearly there's some sort of collective target in mind when they veer into an open room and cross over through another door which is shrouded by curtains that flap open like arms in the wind which blows in through the balcony it lays open to. Now they stand upon the overhang which gives view to a darkened night sky. The sun has bled away in the west and it's final tangs of orange are melding into the navy and there's very little light save for the moon which shivers above the clouds which blot it. There aren't any stars out tonight but the ceaseless scintillations make up for their absence in a rainbow that would put Leprechauns to shame. 

The only thing that snaps Seulgi out of her thoughts is a yelp followed by a splash and then cheers and she realises somebody is missing in Yeri's newfound friendship group. On a slight offset to the edge of the balcony is a blue, illuminated pool which looks almost unnatural and undeniably appealing in the heated atmosphere of the party but it's a far jump away for a drunk person. Yeri is laughing harshly about a 'bool'..? And the others are cheering, hanging their torsos over the boundary to look below with mirthful grins. 

Now the others are taking turns. Each leaping over the balcony's edge into the pool's deep end, leaving white, frothy residue to rise up in bubbles which fizz out once the diver breaches the surface. Seulgi half wants to leave them all be; she has guarded people doing these types of things before in her past and yet she can't shake the foreboding feeling travelling through her veins and wrenching her stomach. She thinks it's to do with Irene. Yeah, probably. She'd be angry if she saw what's going on. Her hand reaches out feebly to take Yeri's shoulder who is now alone in the quiet (or so she thought) on the abandoned balcony. The beckoning calls of those below are louder than the music out here and the young girl watches them with awe in the dappled moonlight and Seulgi can only watch as she clambers up onto the ledge with alcohol-fuelled bravery and her heart is in her mouth.

The way down is long and unforgiving, the tremulous water the only safety net and yet she looks at it with the eagerness of a child getting their first look at the Christmas tree on the big day itself. Seulgi's fumbling with her phone in a desperate attempt to contact an angel; she really wishes she had Irene's number now, even if they're not the best of terms. Joy's name is on her screen when she sends a hurried text begging her to do something. She doesn't know what Joy could or even would do, but there are other things she's trying to think about right now like how Yeri is now facing her, back towards the eager onlookers, standing on the ledge. Her hair whips back in the invisible, humid wind and Seulgi feels herself going cold nonetheless. Don't do anything you'll regret Yeri. Turn back around and face forwards. But clearly, Seulgi's futile willing doesn't beat the intoxicating chants of those below them and Yeri takes a deep breath, steeling herself.

And then she jumps.

For a second Yeri's eyes lock onto Seulgi's, as if she's looking right at her, as if Seulgi is a tangible person. But the look in her eyes isn't one of recognition. It's fear. Horrible, terrible fear that wrenches her gut and renders her a paralysed mess and it is only then does Seulgi realise that she has not jumped. She has slipped. And now she's plummeting down into some great unknown below, the pool a metre offset by her position. The humid air is bitter now and if Yeri could feel anything except her own blood running cold, there would certainly be goosebumps, and her hair waves around her face the colour of black and only that of the sky and she can't even bring herself to scream because she meets the ground before she can entertain the thought.

There's tinnitus in Seulgi's ears ringing loudly as she sprints down the stairs three at a time but she can't tell if it's from the music finally bursting her eardrums or the crippling dread which threatens to buckle her knees and collapse her ankles. The crowds feel thicker now to push through as they slope in tangent to the music's bass and rock against her every which move and she doesn't really know where the door to the garden is, simply following the natural assumption that it'd be at the back of this never-ending house. 

Finally, she breaks through into the wintry outside and the commotion is noticeable. A crowd gathers beneath the balcony edge and people are shouting here and stretching their tight dresses to get a look and those in shirts creasing them. No one moves for what feels like a long time and the empty pool's water froths quietly under the silence which is more deafening than the music. There, in the middle of the crowd, Yeri lies stilly, frozen amongst the moving lights in some awkward position in which she should not be. Seulgi wishes she had just frozen moments before, when she had only been contemplating climbing onto that ledge which bore nothing to stop her fall. 

Blood seeps from where she doesn't know onto the stone, her hand resting in the fluid untwitching. Unmoving. But before Seulgi can get any closer the world is spinning and her balance is waning. Her knees finally give way and she's upon them, the grating pain unnoticeable because when she looks up she's at the party no longer, instead in some strange vision in which the sun has eclipsed the moon. An earthly replication of what she doesn't wish to relive. There's that same metallic tint on her tongue she remembers from both years and a little under a month ago and her hands are before her. Trembling. She's standing now in the upper landing of her own house, the only light is the last, yellowed and pale shreds dwindling through the windows and fading already. There's old blood on her hands and it's turning wine-dark on her clothes. A few drops have bloomed an ugly maroon on the carpet. Her mum will kill her.

Her hands push on the door which gives away, the bottom of it just riding the surface of the floor when it skids open. It hitches and Seulgi slips through the gap. A lump rises and falls beneath the thick duvet of the bed which is unmoving in the centre of the room. Seulgi's blanket is thin and ragged and the jealousy is seething in her throat as she approaches the cyst. And pops it. That same feeling encompasses her hand; pushing what is clearly a knife through a 'starchy pillow.' Blood soaks her skin, soaks the coveted duvet and her hand is damp from her victim's rapid breathing. There's no screaming that can be emitted, just their panicked eyes palpitating and glazing over. She sees double of herself in that bent image and doesn't much like what she sees so she looks away. She has lost count of how many times she has thrust the weapon and she's not shaking anymore, instead a mirthless grin is stretching across her face. Eyes wide and unseeing. Liberation is what she feels and, oh yes, she likes it very much.

Sirens wail in the distance and her breathing slows, their blue tapering lights are stark against the house now with its non-existent spotlights which are finally still in bated breath. Seulgi is on her knees again, staring down at her clean hands and she's doesn't move nor speak. As if to would break the fragile atmosphere on which Yeri relies or she hopes for her to rely on. The stretcher on which she lies is hoisted and the blood that stained her is wiped away and Seulgi doesn't know what to pay attention to; her own warped mind's trickery she has barely recovered from, the unresponsiveness of Yeri or the eery silence of the party all of which are her fault.

If only Irene was here. She would have been able to stop Yeri from jumping, even partying if it were for Irene and the regret is intense and washing over her. It's intoxicating and she only falls deeper into her own sorrows. She's a monster and even the birds of a dawn sky know it. They stay silent with her, knowing what had passed but unable to acknowledge what Seulgi couldn't put right. Even the doors of the yellow and green ambulance swing urgently shut before she can board it and she is left alone in her thoughts. Surrounded by hundreds of people, yet utterly solitary.

* * * 

The other inhabitants of Hell look like angels compared to herself. Like Irene. And she stands in front of the mirror, staring at the vague image and it stares back. She doesn't like the paleness of the reflection, the grey circles beneath its red eyes which bare not even the lick of a candlelight in those dark irises, ungracefully tussled hair and crumpled clothing and most of all, those red little horns. A signature of what she is and what she wishes she isn't all perfectly summated as those two distinctive shapes on her head. They don't hurt. She doesn't think they feel either. Natural for an unnatural being. 

There's a file in her hands. Her clean hands with skin dried from overwashing. White divots litter the file; it has been used before. She brings it up and it hovers inches away from her horns and she waits. Perhaps someone would stop her or call her name. But she's the devil's advocate. She has no guardian of her own.

The pain is no worse than what Yeri probably went through.


End file.
